Yours
by fleurs-du-mol
Summary: Moriarty taunts John via text.


John's at the clinic when he gets the first text message, trying to eat his lunch between seeing patients with the flu.

"You know it can't last much longer.

- J. M."

He swallows a bite of ham sandwich before he can choke on it. He's lucky his office door is closed.

"What do you mean?" He types back, going to the window and looking out, checking the milling sidewalks and even trying to see the people in the cars that pass by in the street. After a moment he checks the office windows he can see into, knowing it's ridiculous, knowing there's no point in looking. Moriarty won't be there. And whether Moriarty can hack into John's number is a moot point.

"Oh, even you can't be that blind."

"Apparently I can."

"Your Sherlock and his zenith, silly. Said I would burn him, didn't I?"

The blood in his face drains as his mouth goes dry. This is what he's been afraid of: afraid to the point of nightmares.

But of course there's no point in telling Sherlock he's scared of the game.

"My Sherlock."

"Yours."

How keen of Moriarty to pick up on the question mark that isn't there.

"He's not stupid."

"But so vain."

"No."

"Stop me."

The texts are like volleys. John turns to the door and without packing up his things, he walks out. On his way to the lobby, he makes some excuse to Sarah. They're close to breaking up and she's looking for an excuse to fire him anyway. He mumbles something banal and makes his way to the street, where he hails a taxi. It's raining and he's forgotten his coat.

Baker Street is calm when he arrives. He pays the cabbie.

The door's unlocked and he swallows before stepping inside, not worried about what he might find because Moriarty never works that way, but feeling a strange sense of urgency. Mrs. Hudson must have more trash telly on; he hears the jeers of the audience without really knowing what they're yelling.

His mobile buzzes in his back pocket.

"Have you run home yet?"

He flicks it closed, shoves it back in his pocket with a strangled growl. Takes the stairs two at a time.

Sherlock is busy reordering his books, the ones on the topmost shelf that John can't reach unless he's on tiptoe. John can see he's wearing the blue bathrobe that looks like a smoking jacket and a pair of sweats, but he hasn't bothered to get dressed. Abruptly, John moves toward him.

"I thought you weren't off for another two hours." Sherlock's low voice isn't vexed. "Though I did only remember that after asking you to bring me the copy of Sartre."

The voice, his voice, is comforting.

John puts both of his hands around Sherlock's waist and pivots him so that they're facing one another. Sherlock's vivid blue eyes narrow, but he's not expecting to be manhandled by a member of the British military, so John gets away with it. Without waiting for his flatmate to raise any kind of questions, John keeps one hand on his side and tilts his face down, desperately, insistently, and kisses him deeply. Understandably, Sherlock is surprised, but John's encouraged when after a few moments he relaxes into the kiss, lean body becoming pliant.

When John's tongue parts his lips, he tastes like black tea and salt. They fall back against the shelves, books and bottles clattering, the sound not quite obscuring their groan. Sherlock's not wearing a shirt under the silk bathrobe; his flesh is smooth as John lets his fingers wander over his sides. This is the first time he's confirmed how thin Sherlock actually is: his ribcage and muscles are easy to follow, and he writhes under John's touch.

It takes John a minute to realize Sherlock is talking to him, saying something against his mouth. "John?" The one-worded question is new for its tone. It is breathless and intrigued and uncertain. Not Sherlock. John likes it, but he bites back a smile because he knows Sherlock would think he was mocking him.

"You know I'm yours, right?" John forces himself to pull back, crane up to look Sherlock in the face. His eyes are bewildered and bright, hollow cheeks flushed. He peers at John like he's never quite seen him before, lips slightly opened and reddened from kissing. It is the first time John has seen him look like this when he's not on a case: all that manic energy stilled, concentrated.

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "Yes."

John does not ask about the extent of the 'yes,' choosing instead to trace Sherlock's jaw with a finger as though committing his features to memory. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

His mobile goes off in his back pocket again, and Sherlock feels it because they are close, so close, pressed together from the waist down. Sherlock's gaze flicks from John's face to his pockets. "You don't have your coat," he says, his hands raking against the damp from John's shirt.

"No," says John. He eases himself away from Sherlock and draws out the mobile.

The little screen only reads, "Soon." He shuts it off with the press of a button, flinging it to the table.

John sighs and fights down the urge to scream. He can feel Sherlock watching him, but what surprises him is the touch of long, tapered fingers under his chin a few seconds later. "John," says Sherlock, searching his expression. "What's happened?"

"Nothing."


End file.
